


no more monsters (i can breathe again)

by gallavichsecurity



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 11x06 coda, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief mention of past rape, Childhood Trauma, Dealing With Trauma, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gap Filler, Hurt Mickey Milkovich, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentioned Terry Milkovich, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Abuse, Season/Series 11, Supportive Ian Gallagher, support husbands are best husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29681808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallavichsecurity/pseuds/gallavichsecurity
Summary: It had been a longfuckingday.The weight of everything — the wheelchair and the gun andI wanna be better than that— only seemed to compound as they turned in for the night, making the trek up to their room one step at a time. Climbing the stairs like it was the home stretch of some harrowing marathon run from Hell, feet blistered and bleeding.(Mickey, Ian knew, was long overdue for some rest. And a good night’s sleep couldn’t cure all the grief, all the anger and the pain and the fear, but it definitely wasn’t a bad place to start.)-----OR an 11x06 comfort coda
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 44
Kudos: 267





	no more monsters (i can breathe again)

**Author's Note:**

> tw:// mentions of abuse and rape (in passing, very brief), and overall heavier themes re: dealing with trauma. (the events themselves are not detailed or gone into in any depth)
> 
> please take care of yourselves, lovelies -- it _is_ more "comfort" than "hurt", though, because I'm a sucker for soft, supportive husbands and a dash of healthy communication 😌

It had been a long _fucking_ day.

The weight of everything — the wheelchair and the gun and _I wanna be better than that_ — only seemed to compound as they turned in for the night, making the trek up to their room one step at a time. Climbing the stairs like it was the home stretch of some harrowing marathon run from Hell, feet blistered and bleeding.

They hadn’t spoken much, since the rubble from Lip’s selling-the-house bomb had finally settled, but that was okay. The fatigue aching through their bones spoke volumes, and sometimes, it was easier not to speak. Sometimes words weren’t worth the energy it took to find them.

They went through the motions of their nightly routine all but silent. Teeth, brushed. Faces, washed. Meds, swallowed. Moving around each other in the bathroom with practiced ease, all the while carefully avoiding the eggshells littering the floor. Pointedly ignoring the slight tremor lingering in Mickey’s hands, the one that was maybe from exhaustion, maybe from something else, but all-too-real regardless.

When they got back to their room, Ian wasted little time in tugging Mickey close. In curling his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and easing it over his head, helping him step out of his sweatpants before getting undressed himself. He tossed Mickey a t-shirt from their dresser, one of his softened, old ones that would hang a little too-loose around Mickey’s frame and was therefore perfect for sleeping, and Mickey pulled it on as if on autopilot.

Ian, still clad only his undershirt and boxers, reached for him silently. Curled his fingers around the curve of his hips and pulled him close by the waist, gentle but firm. He dropped his head down, foreheads bumping together softly, and Mickey closed his eyes. Held him there, for a moment, like some kind of trance, before letting out a long breath. It was deep and heavy, as if it was the first time he’d exhaled all day, and his shoulders slumped with it, his entire body giving way to something tired. Release.

Mickey lifted his face, tilting his head just a little. Just enough to tell Ian what he wanted.

Understanding Mickey, at this point – _reading_ him, in physical and non-physical ways – had become a second language.

Ducking his head down, Ian pressed his nose into the hollow space under Mickey’s jaw. Brought his lips to the column of Mickey’s neck, mouthing there gently as he moved them towards their bed. His hands, curling to the small of Mickey’s back, fingers pressing firmly into skin, rucking his shirt up only slightly. He lowered them both down to the mattress carefully, and as he pulled Mickey flush against him, pressed into the bed, he felt Mickey’s body go pliant beneath him. Back arched, ever-so-slightly, chasing Ian’s touch as his breath hitched, eyes still closed. Naked, in every way but physical, and _trusting_.

And as Ian’s hands moved over him, soft, loving, the slight quiver that Mickey’s frame harbored eased away. The trembling that laced through his fingers and his shoulders, that shuddered through his breath, evening out over time. Fading with moonlit, quiet ministrations under a body-warmed blanket, with tender touches and the gentle calm of the midnight hour.

Decades-old iron, learning to rust. Nerves, beginning to calm. Lightning, giving way to fatigue.

When Ian finally took him, he did it _slowly_. With all the love he could muster, face to face.

Afterwards, bodies spent and flushed, Ian pulled Mickey against his chest and held him. Slung one arm over Mickey’s waist, their fingers interlaced and pressed into Mickey’s stomach, tucked in close.

Mickey, Ian knew, was long overdue for some rest. For some peace. And while a good night’s sleep couldn’t cure all the grief, all the anger and the pain and the fear, it definitely wasn’t a bad place to start. And considering how worn down Ian himself felt – emotionally, mentally _–_ he could only imagine how bone-deep the exhaustion from the day ran in his husband.

Which is why it was such a shock, when Mickey spoke. When he shattered their unofficial vow of silence like a rock, shot through a stained-glass window.

“You ever...” he mumbled, half-muffled by his pillow, long enough into the silence that Ian had very nearly drifted off to sleep in the lingering warmth of pleasure. “You ever feel dirty? Carryin’ round your mom’s fucked up DNA?”

Ian, for a long moment, couldn’t tell if Mickey had meant to say it aloud. Probably not, he suspected, because Mickey was never the type to ask questions with that particular weight to them, so he waited. Waited for him to reel it back in. Retreat into his shell, shield his tragically exposed throat from danger.

Mickey had always been a man of action. Talking wasn’t always a comfort, in his world. Not like a solid weight against his back could be, or an arm wrapped around his middle, legs tangled together. Not like how encasing him in contact and warmth was a comfort, in a way words could never quite reach.

Talking through something as heavy as this had never even seemed like an _option._

Still, he had said it. He’d broken the silence that had found its home around them, and his voice had been so quiet, so tentative, that it almost sounded accidental. Like he’d been sleep-talking, mind a million miles away, shrouded in the shadows of their moonlit bedroom and muffled beneath a blanket of foggy bliss.

When Ian didn’t answer, Mickey’s fingers curled tighter around his, breathing almost too-evenly. Definitely awake. Definitely alert, and waiting for a response.

Taking that as his cue, Ian pulled Mickey closer to his chest, ducking his head down slightly.

“Not dirty,” he murmured into Mickey’s hair, after careful deliberation, scalp radiating heat. He had a vague idea where Mickey’s thoughts were headed, but he also knew he needed to give Mickey the space to come to it on his own terms. He turned his face, cheek to the crown of Mickey’s head. “Crazy, sure. But not dirty. Not her fault she was sick.”

Mickey took a breath in at that, with intent, like he had to consciously work the air in and out of his lungs. Shepherding the oxygen in, one molecule at a time. Laborious, and forced. “S’pose,” he acknowledged after a beat, his voice betraying his exhaustion, before falling silent again.

Ian let it linger, for a long while, giving Mickey a chance to go on. They’d been in this sharp, heavy limbo all day long, tiptoeing across an elastic stretched way too fucking tight, and Ian was trying so hard not to snap it. So hard to just... help Mickey keep his balance, without overstepping. Letting Mickey process something he thought he’d left behind so long ago, but that had left its scars nonetheless. 

He knew what Mickey was thinking, too, and why he’d asked that. It made sense. Trying to equivocate, trying to run his issues parallel to Ian’s in a way that took the focus solely off of himself, as a defense mechanism. It had always been about _defense mechanisms_ , for Mickey. Anything to divert attention off of himself, having spent so much energy trying to fly under-the-radar and prevent anyone from looking at him too closely. From seeing him too clearly.

So it made sense, for Mickey to try and grasp at something to level the playing field. To align his fears to Ian’s, mark it as something that Ian could weather with him, in solidarity. It broke Ian’s heart, to know that’s where his head was, that there _was_ no true alignment to be made, but it made sense.

After another long breath of silence, Mickey shifted, just a little. Tension coiling in his shoulders just a bit, just enough for Ian to feel the muscles tighten against him. “But she wasn’t...” Mickey got out, still quiet, but with a little bit of bite behind it, an edge of unsteadiness that couldn’t be hidden. Without lifting his head, Ian could see that Mickey’s jaw had clenched slightly, the same way it had earlier, lips pressed into hard lines.

The words from earlier echoed through his head, unwelcome and sharp. _Use his mouth for a fucking ashtray._

When Mickey didn’t continue, Ian took the tentative plunge forward. “...an abusive, homophobic psychopath,” he supplied, filling the gap. He shook his head gently. “No. It’s not the same, Mick. There’s no comparison. Not to her, and not to Frank, either.”

The air, any air Mickey had in him, came out in a ragged rush. Without much warning, he was pushing himself to sit up, dislodging himself of Ian’s grasp and lifting his hands to his face. Scooting back to lean against the wall, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes as he ducked his head forward. “I wish that bullet had just fuckin’ killed him,” he ground out, through his teeth and almost _angry_. “Woulda made everything so _fucking_ easy.”

Ian sighed softly as he sat up, too. He rested a hand to Mickey’s thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze as he shifted, shoulder pressed to the wall. “I don’t think you mean that.”

A huff of breath, not quite light enough to be considered a laugh, hitched from Mickey’s nose. “Course I do. I hate the prick, and I wish he were dead.”

Tilting his head, Ian watched him carefully. The depth of Mickey’s anger — his rage, his grief, his _everything_ — had always been bone-rattling and real, ever since they were teenagers hiding in the dark. But he’s never been one to truly _hate._ He didn’t have it in him, it wasn’t how he was wired. His actions — or rather, _inactions —_ from the past day proved as much. Because if there was anyone on the planet deserving of Mickey’s hatred, it was Terry _fucking_ Milkovich. And Mickey, staring headfirst at him with clear eyes, had still decided to _help,_ instead _._

“I don’t really think you mean that, either,” he gauged carefully.

Dropping his hands, Mickey sent him a sideways scowl. His eyes were ringed in pink, visible even in the dim light, and there were lines of tension around his mouth, creasing his forehead. He looked tired. He looked _sad_. “Shows what the fuck you know, then.”

Ian, if he didn’t know Mickey as well as he did, might’ve been stung at the pointed words. As it was, they only made that ache in his chest build, twisting in a way that was almost physical.

He let a beat of silence pass, choosing not to respond quite yet. Giving Mickey some space to untangle his thoughts, the conflict behind his eyes loud and insistent. Gradually, after another handful of stalled seconds, Mickey sucked in a shaky breath, closing his eyes. Pressed his lips together before exhaling out so, so slowly.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he didn’t look at Ian. _Wouldn’t_ look at Ian. “He’s my fucking dad _,_ man.”

Rubbing his hand along Mickey’s thigh softly, Ian let out his own exhale, small and quiet. “Yeah.”

Ian hesitated again before pressing forward. They couldn’t solve this by force, he knew. It wasn’t something that could be talked out in twenty minutes and then _released,_ like some kind of sick pressure pin, and it wouldn’t be healthy to try.

Still, Mickey had brought it up. Ian wouldn’t be able to live with himself, if he didn’t at least make the effort to soothe him, in some way. Validate him, in whatever manner he could.

Ian dropped his gaze. Let it trail over his hand, still rubbing small circles on Mickey’s leg. “Just because he’s your dad,” he ventured carefully, and lifted his eyes, searching for Mickey’s, “doesn’t mean he’s... polluted you, or something. You’re not dirty _,_ just ‘cause you’re carrying around his DNA.”

Mickey’s jaw clenched, the little muscles in his cheek jumping slightly. His lips pressed tight, but were wavering slightly, too, like he was trying to steel himself and couldn’t quite manage. He still wouldn’t meet Ian’s eyes, but he didn’t need to for Ian to see the glassiness growing in them, a sheen of wetness that reflected the light from the window like a tired, old ache.

“He _poisons_ everything he touches,” Mickey forced out after a heavy moment, low and raw. “Infects everyone around him like some kind of fuckin’ plague rat.”

“You’re not your dad,” Ian assured, gentle but steady. Firm. “You hear me?”

Mickey sniffed. Smiled with an edge of vitriol, glancing up to the ceiling. Blinking, but no tears fell. “Sure.”

“You’re _not_. You’re so much better than him. You’ve always been so much better than him.”

“Yeah,” Mickey returned with another huff of breath, something too warped to be a laugh. “S’what you keep tellin’ me.”

Ian shifted in his seat again, still trying to catch his eyes. “Because it’s the truth,” he insisted, ducking his head forward. “Mick, you’re — you’re a good person _._ And maybe it’s hard for you to see that, so I’ll just keep sayin’ it, if I need to. He hasn’t won, because you haven’t let him. He hasn’t _poisoned_ you.”

Taking in another shaking breath, Mickey let his eyes drift shut again. Rubbed a hand across his face, wiping the wetness in his lashes away before it could bead and fall, like he always had.

“Shit, man,” he swore, but it was quiet, and there was less steel in it. Some vulnerability that wasn’t shielded, neck exposed to all the dangers of the wild. “Wish I could just... scrub him outta me, y’know? A fuckin’ Terry detox.”

That weight in Ian’s chest swelled, lurching and sharp. He trailed his hand higher, up Mickey’s arm, before snaking around to run at the back of his neck. “I don’t think it works that way,” he murmured, apologetic, and dropped his forehead to Mickey’s temple.

“Makes my skin crawl. Bein’ his son. Thinkin’ about it too hard.”

Ian took in a breath, and squeezed the nape of Mickey’s neck, the only response he could muster.

“I want to hate him, Ian. I really do.”

Ian nodded, still keeping his head ducked. “Okay.”

“I _should_ hate him.”

And Ian thought about it. About a younger Mickey with paler skin, about green and purple bruises and broken noses. About pistol whips and conversion rape and a too-big rental tux, that reeked of cigarettes. About things — other things — that he doesn’t even know about, things Mickey keeps locked up so closely that even Ian can only speculate. Those small, circular scars on his hand that have all but faded; the way too much noise, too much chaos sometimes makes his breath shake; how he’s quick to lunge, to _attack_ , when he’s woken too abruptly.

There was so much. So much cruelty. So much pain.

Ian pushed out a breath, doing everything he could to keep it steady, despite the way heat prickled at the backs of his own eyes. “You’d have every fucking reason to.”

A second passed, and then another, before Mickey spoke again. “I’m… glad I didn’t kill him, though.”

He said it quietly, like a secret. Like he couldn’t say it too loudly, or everything would break.

 _Fuck,_ Ian was proud of him. “Yeah,” he managed to get out, around the lump in his throat. “Yeah, I know. Me, too.”

Mickey took in another shuddering breath, but Ian could feel him melting back into the wall, into Ian’s touch. Worn down and spent, all those sharp things draining from him at once. He sniffled again, and his hand found Ian’s knee. “What a fuckin’ day,” he muttered, and shook his head.

Ian smiled sadly, feeling the exhaustion of the past ten hours or so like concrete in his own eyelids, and he gently thumbed at the tension in the base of Mickey’s neck. “We should get some rest.”

Mickey took in a breath through his nose and opened his eyes, finally bringing them to Ian. Impossibly blue, illuminated only by the dim moonlight, yet still clearly ringed in something darker, a little swollen and a little bloodshot. Still, they were open in a way they never used to be, when they were kids and Mickey had been so afraid. When he’d still been in danger.

He brought his hand up, curling it around Ian’s cheek as he nodded, releasing his breath all at once, shoulders deflating in fatigue. “Could prolly sleep for a year, after that shit show,” he murmured, and Ian smiled a little.

Scratching his fingers through Mickey’s hair, he dropped his head forward, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured against his skin, and Mickey gave him a light shove, before inching forward to lay down again.

“Fuck off, man.”

But Ian brought him to a halt, gripping the hand that had pushed him away firmly. He shook his head, because — _no_. “Hey. Look at me.”

Pressing his lips tight, a flash of something weary crossed Mickey’s face. It took him a moment, but eventually he obliged, tilting his head towards Ian and lifting his gaze. Maybe a little uncomfortable, like he always got when deep-seated sincerities slipped free and sounded a little bit too much like a compliment for his liking, but attentive nonetheless.

Ian brought his hand up to his face again, holding him still. “I’m proud of you,” he repeated, as earnest as he could make it. “Okay? You get it?”

Mickey didn’t say anything, merely held Ian’s gaze for a long moment before finally, eventually, lowering his eyes. Tilting his head down ever so slightly and chewing at his lower lip as he blinked, in what Ian knew would be the only gesture of affirmation. Less than half of a nod, but with some of those creases in his forehead softening, the lines between his eyebrows smoothing out.

Ian squeezed his hand. “And however you want to do this — I’m with you. No questions asked.”

Eyes lifting once more to match Ian’s, Mickey held his gaze. They were glassy, again, under the faint moonlight, and Ian wasn’t sure what he was looking for, exactly, but soon enough Mickey’s fingers were tightening around his in return. He offered a clearer, more distinct nod, and Ian assumed that to mean he was able to find whatever it was he’d needed.

Without further prompting, Mickey tugged him forward, settling back down to the bed. They sank into the mattress and into each other easily, a homing beacon, as Mickey curled onto his side. Ian held him close, pulled him to his side as Mickey snaked his leg around him, only this time his nose was buried in the crook of Ian’s neck, his breath hot and steady against Ian’s skin. Slow and deep, controlled in a way that made Ian think he was still working to keep that shakiness at bay, but even nonetheless.

“Thanks,” Mickey mumbled eventually, muffled, and Ian wondered briefly if they’d ever be able to jump that particular fence; that persistent _shyness_ Mickey still harbored around him, even after all these years, when it came to vulnerable things. Thanking him, only now that his face was hidden from view. “For today. Y’know.”

But that was a task for another day. For now, Ian was just grateful that Mickey was _intact._ Everything else would come, with a little bit of time.

He rubbed along Mickey’s back, the weight of his husband warm and solid against him. “We take care of each other, right?” he murmured back, keeping his voice low. “’S in our vows. Legally obligated, at this point.”

Mickey huffed a breath, and unlike before, this one _felt_ more like a laugh. Tired, but a laugh. It was like the sun, where it brushed across his skin. “Alright, Romeo.”

Unable to suppress a small smile, Ian squeezed his arm. The weight in his chest -- that tight, sharp, heavy thing – having faded, just enough. “I really am proud of you, y’know.”

“Mhm,” Mickey hummed tiredly, noncommittally, but pressed a kiss to Ian’s shoulder anyway. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

“You gonna be okay?”

There was a moment, then, that Mickey didn’t respond. Just laid there breathing, the soft silence giving nothing away.

“It’s okay to say no,” Ian added quietly, because he needed Mickey to hear it. Wanted Mickey to understand.

Hatred or pity or fear or grief, or some kind of confusing mix of it all, would never change how resilient he was. However he felt, whether he was okay or not, would never change who he is at his core. Someone who chooses to help, rather than hurt, every fucking time. If there was anything Ian wanted Mickey to understand, it was that.

“Yeah,” Mickey answered eventually, after a long moment, and there was no tension in it. No tightness in his shoulders, no quiver in his hands, and Ian, confident in his ability to read between all of Mickey’s jagged lines, could see he was telling the truth. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Ian hummed with a final squeeze, not trusting his voice entirely, and gave one last brush of his fingers across Mickey’s arm. “Okay,” he murmured, and let his eyes drift across his face. “Okay, then get some rest.”

With a final shift, pressing his cheek momentarily into Ian’s shoulder, Mickey’s fingers curled against him. Rested on his chest, and though he didn’t say anything more, he took in another long, slow inhale, breathing him in.

And while morning may break with different colored tragedies, in that moment, the midnight hour was kind. Promising.

“G’night, Mick.”

The peace that fell between them – that softened the lines in Mickey’s face long before sleep ever took him – felt a little bit like healing. 

**Author's Note:**

> will I ever write anything other than soft midnight comfort husbands??? the world may never know
> 
> anywho, this episode rattled me in a lot of ways, but writing this was honestly so cathartic and brought me a lot of peace. I originally wasn't going to post it, but I figured if it can bring some comfort to me, maybe it can bring comfort to others too
> 
> title from "Praying" by Kesha
> 
> come chat with me on [tumblr](https://gallavichsecurity.tumblr.com/) :)


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